Full Cry (13 page)

Hounds streamed over the frost turning to dew, the subdued winter green of the grasses underneath shining through.

Although it was only in the high thirties, Sister sweated underneath her shadbelly. Silk long johns stuck to her skin, a trickle of sweat zigzagged down her left temple. She was running hard. She was going to run harder.

Keepsake, in his glory, would have been only too thrilled to pass Gunpowder. However, he knew to stay behind as huntsman and mount flew over the logs. It irked him all the more since he thought he could outrun Gunpowder. He tired of hearing the gray thoroughbred, a former steeple-chaser, deride Keepsake because he was a thoroughbred/ quarter horse cross. Keepsake knew he had the stuff. Not all thoroughbreds were snobs, but Gunpowder was.

The field stayed well together, a testimony to their riding abilities; it would have been easy to get strung out on such a day. The footing started out tight but was getting sweaty in spots.

Ahead, another fence line hooked into the old three-board fence at a right angle. Sister took the log jump, then turned sharply left to soar over a stiff coop. You had to hit that second jump just right, which meant you had to put your right leg on your horse's the instant his or her hooves touched the earth from the first jump.

Sister knew she'd lose a few people at this obstacle, or they'd go past the second jump and wait for the rest of the field to clear before taking it. If a person misses a jump or his or her horse refuses, hunting etiquette demands he or she go to the end of the line. The exception to this is staff. Should a staff horse refuse a jump, which can happen, the staff person, who always has the right of way, may try again. If he or she can't get the animal over, a person in the field, usually Sister, gives them a lead. Now and then, even the best of staff horses will take a notion to refuse.

The red flew straight as an arrow, not doubling back, ducking into a den, or even cutting right, then left. He seemed intent on providing the best sport of the last two months. Before Sister knew it, they had run clean through Alice Ramy's farm. Alice waved from the window. They flew on to the next farm.

Down a large oval depression twenty feet below, with rock outcroppings and roughly forty yards around, the hounds suddenly stopped. This low land rested above a narrow, strong-running creek, part of a mostly underground creek. The somewhat higher ground in this shrubby area was defended by an outraged badger.

Badgers aren't supposed to be living in central Virginia, but here he was, and he was not happy. The first thing that fanned all twenty-five pounds of his bad mood was a damned coyote who had earlier watched him as he dug into a tempting rat hole. When the rat had popped out the other side, the coyote nabbed him, broke his back, and walked off. Didn't even bother to run. The badger, not fast, gave chase, hopeless though it was. So he had to settle for a morning meal of mice while he dreamed the gray squirrel chattering above would fall out of the enormous naked willow. Squirrels delighted his taste buds. But that wasn't bad enough. Not an hour later, an extremely rude fox ducked into his den, beheld the badger with no small surprise, turned around, and blasted right out again.

Now, a pack of hounds, and, worse—people on horseback—were at his front door. Well, he'd tell them a thing or two at the lip of his den, of course. This day had been too much, plucked his last nerve.

“Get out!”

The speechless hounds stood stiff-legged as the badger continued his stream of uncomplimentary conversation.

“What is that?”
Tinsel inhaled an unusual odor.

“Only ever seen one other one.”
Delia wished Shaker would give them an order.
“Badger. They're powerful.
Mostly live farther north, but they're moving in, I guess.”

Dragon lifted his head: the coyote scent proved stronger, heavier than the fox scent, even though the fox had so recently been there. Dragon wasn't known for his patience. He walked away from the badger and put his nose down the rat hole.

“Let's go.”
He bellowed, taking off, half the pack taking off with him.

Diana shouted after her brother.
“Wait!”

Diana and Cora hurried to the spot. Cora shook her head.
“Coyote.”

Shaker knew his hounds. Cora did not follow the half that shot off with Dragon. Instead, she, Diana, Asa, Dasher, and others patiently moved a bit away from the still-fuming badger, casting themselves as good hounds do.

“Here he is. Here he is, that devil!”
Asa got a nose full of fox scent first.

He opened, and the other half of the pack went with him, including Tinsel, who'd had the great good sense not to follow the impetuous, arrogant Dragon.

Shaker hesitated a second. Should he blow the errant half back and risk blowing back the hounds he knew to be right, or should he just blow the rapid series of notes— three short notes in succession—three or four times to try and bring the others back to Cora and Asa? He elected the latter, clapped his leg to Gunpowder, blowing as he galloped.

The splinter half bolted on Sybil's side. She heard the horn moving farther away in the opposite direction, so she knew what her job was. Mounted on Colophon, a purchase in the summer to augment her hunter string, she hit the afterburners. She'd have to draw alongside Dragon, a little in front, and reprimand him. If that didn't work, harsher measures would.

Luckily, the hounds chased over a meadow, so she wasn't ducking trees in the woods. Colophon, sixteen hands, a bay thoroughbred and fast, streaked, his lovely head stretched out. Height in horses is measured in hands; one hand equals four inches.

“Dragon, leave it!”
Sybil commanded.

“Make me!”
he challenged her.

She cracked her whip, which brought the other hounds to a halt, but not Dragon. She again drew alongside the speedy hound, pulled out her .22 pistol with ratshot, and fired a blast on his rear end that he would never forget.

“Leave it!”

“Ow! Ow! Ow!”
he shrieked.

His cries of pain at the tiny birdshot pellets—foxhunters called them ratshot—scared the other hounds. If they'd had a mind to disobey after pulling up for the crack of the whip, the thought now vanished.

“Come along.” Sybil said this with authority. They obediently turned, following her.

A mile later, moving at a canter, she heard Shaker again blow the rapid series of three notes, three or four times, on his horn. Of course, the hounds with her had heard long before that.

“Go to him,” she ordered. Those hounds couldn't get away fast enough. It would be a cold day in hell before anyone in that group elected to listen to Dragon again. Whether Dragon had learned his lesson remained to be seen. His many gifts were sullied by a hard head.

Sister heard the ratshot blast after the whip crack as she thundered along. The crack of the whip, the tip moving faster than the speed of sound, sounded like a sharp rifle report. Depending on the humidity, it could be heard for miles.

Within ten minutes the coyote hunters swept past her, joining the main pack up ahead.

All on, Sister thought to herself. Thank God.

As Keepsake trotted through a wide creek, she noted spicebush all along the banks and realized she was now at Chapel Cross, an estate four miles southwest of her place. They were still running hard.

A dirt crossroads, a small stone chapel on its northeast corner, came into view. The red, now in plain sight, reached his den, snug under the foundation of the church.

The hounds started to dig, but Shaker pulled them off with Betty's help. Walter and Ronnie rode up to hold their horses at Sister's bidding. Much as Shaker liked to reward hounds with a bit of digging, it wouldn't do to have the small Methodist church disgraced.

He blew “Gone to Ground,” praised his hounds extravagantly while noting the tiny red dots on Dragon's rear end.

“You'll learn, buddy, or you'll be drafted out of here,” Shaker said in a low voice to Dragon, and then in a higher one, “Good hounds! Good hounds!”

He slipped his left foot in the stirrup, swinging up in one graceful motion. Betty swung up a little less gracefully, as Magellan was taller than Outlaw. Patiently the thoroughbred waited for her to wiggle herself settled in the seat.

“Be glad she's lost weight,”
Gunpowder said.
“Used to
be twenty-five pounds heavier.”

“She's not bad.”
Magellan liked Betty.
“I'd put up with
twenty-five more pounds. She's a hell of a lot better than
Fontaine ever was.”
He mentioned his former owner.

The field stood; people breathed hard, as did a few horses. And there was Jim Meads, who had shadowed them on foot. Alice Ramy came out of the house when she saw him running. She offered him a ride in her car since the field showed no sign of slowing at that point. The instant he closed the door of her car, they chatted as if they'd known each other all their lives.

Sister thanked her hounds, thanked Shaker, thanked Alice, then turned to face the field.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have just put to ground a religious fox, and a Methodist at that. I suppose that means he doesn't dance or drink.

“I myself am not a Methodist, and if any of you are, time to cover your eyes.” She held up her flask. “Lays the dust.”

The field laughed. People pulled out their flasks. The men fastened theirs on the left side of their saddle. Ladies' flasks nestled in a small square sandwich box on the right rear of the saddle, usually. The ladies' flasks contained less liquor than the men's, so the gentlemen gallantly offered their flasks to the ladies first. It never hurts to get on the good side of a woman.

Sister offered her flask first to Betty, then to Walter, who had come up behind her.

“Thank you, Sister.” Walter took a sip, then offered his flask, which contained a mixture of scotch, orange juice, a dash Cointreau, and a secret ingredient he wouldn't divulge. It hinted of bitters.

Hattie Baker Parrish offered Sam Lorillard her flask, then realized he couldn't drink it. Sam, by chance, was just behind Xavier.

“Sam, I forgot.”

He smiled. “I brought iced tea.” He lifted his flask to his lips and, as he did so, loosened the reins. A movement behind the church made his horse turn his head, and, in so doing, the flecked foam from his mouth splattered Xavier.

Xavier turned, beheld Sam. His face turned beet red. He took his crop, scraped a white line of sweat off his own mount, flicking it right in Sam's face. “Yours, I believe, sir.”

“You're an ass, Henry Xavier,” Sam shot back.

That fast, Xavier—as big as he was—was off his horse, pulling Sam from his. The two started whaling the living shit out of each other; Xavier, bigger, landed more telling blows. Sam, small and slight, bobbed and weaved as best he could, but he was too mad to care about getting hurt, and he landed a few.

Gray dismounted, as did Walter, Ronnie, and Clay Berry. It took Clay and Walter to pull off Xavier. Gray managed to grab his brother's upper arms and drag him backwards.

“I will have satisfaction!” Xavier struggled.

“Chill,” Walter advised, his voice calm. “Dueling days are over.”

Meanwhile, Meads caught it all on film.

Gray put his hand over his brother's mouth because Sam had a mean tongue when he felt like it. Anything coming out of his mouth would only make a bad situation worse.

The humans, hounds, and horses observed this drama with great interest, none more so than Sister. As the master, she couldn't let it slide.

She rode to Xavier. “X, I know there's bad blood, but I can't allow this kind of behavior in the hunt field. You are excused. I will speak to you later when we are both in a better frame of mind.”

Shocked, as he had never once been reprimanded, and still angry but beginning to recognize he had done a really dumb thing, Xavier wordlessly remounted. He turned for the long ride back to Mill Ruins. Ronnie, a friend always, turned with him after saying, as was proper, “Good night, Master. Thank you for a glorious day.”

“Good night, Ronnie.”

Sam, head down, Gray still holding his upper arms, now looked up at Sister. “I'm sorry.”

“He provoked it, I know that; but Sam, you, too, are excused. I advise you to ride a good distance behind Xavier and Ronnie or, if you prefer, to ride at a distance from the field because we're going in. I will speak with you later.”

“Yes, Master.” He bowed his head again. “Good night, Master.”

She nodded to him as Gray looked up at her. “Good night, Master.”

“Night, Gray.”

The brothers waited for the field to move off, then slowly walked behind them.

Walter, abreast with Sister, finally said, “Unforgettable day.”

She smiled. “The phone lines will be burning up tonight.”

Cranking on members wasn't natural to Sister, but like so many people before her, she had learned that if you are going to lead, you must be fair, firm, and decisive. If a master tolerates bad behavior once, she or he will be certain to see it twice. And if a Board of Governors or the field senses a weak master, mischief multiplies like fleas in summer.

Humans, like hounds, need a strong leader. Sister was strong. She hoped she was fair.

“Thank you for your help, Walter. It could have been worse.”

“You know, I am always glad to help you or the hunt any way I can,” he said, meaning every word.

“If your schedule isn't too busy this week, let me take you to breakfast, lunch, or dinner, whatever you prefer. I'd like to have your undivided attention.” She smiled, not wanting him to think it would be a difficult meeting. Actually, she hoped it would be positive.